Brains
by Rose-de-Noire
Summary: Johnlock, Mystrade and Zombies.    The weirdest crossover AU I ever wrote... Based on the ongoing dreams I have – almost every night - since I started to watch the BBC Series  Not yet betaread!
1. Chapter 1

Johnlock, Mystrade and Zombies.

The weirdest crossover AU I ever wrote... Based on the ongoing dreams I have – almost every night - since I started to watch the BBC Series  
>Not yet betaread!<p>

**BRAINS**

**I**

As always it takes me some seconds to focus on where and – much more important – _who_ I am.  
>Usually I've about thirty seconds to get into the flow.<br>This time I've gotten ten.  
>Ten seconds before blood, goo and other rather nasty things sticks to my bare hands, with I pulled out the unbeating hearts of the attacking undeads, sending them to ground, smashing their heads under my heavy army boots.<br>Not yet sure, if zombies or not, but there's apparently no time to investigate this further, as there more of those dirty crawlers.  
>I grip the first thing suitable as a weapon – hockey stick – and start to methodically clean their rows.<br>"This. Is. Not. My. Division." I think, quoting D.I. Lestrade.  
>Then there's a shudder rippling through the undead rows and a sturdy voice barks some commands: "Greg, Anthea, left side. John, Sherlock, right side. I take the straight way!"<br>I know the names and recognize the voice.  
>Three more strikes, some more kicks and then he appears in front of me: Well tailored suit covered in blood, tie around his head, brain mass dripping from the brollies tip, mad smirk plastered to his face.<br>"Bloody hell," he grunts accusingly, still smirking, "Iris, what the fuck got into you to stroll out all alone?"  
>His sight brings back the lost memories, tells me how to act and I offer a crooked smile of my own: "Sorry, Myc, I just needed some "fresh" air..." scratching the back of my head, smearing blood and goo all over me.<br>"Are you okay there?"  
>Johns wet slur of a voice reminds me of the fact, that in this world are more than one sort of "zombies": the good, the bad and the "turned" ones...<br>Mycroft Holmes and me nods at the same time, turning to where the former army doctor stands, perched against his back is Sherlock, holding a big sledgehammer, covered from tip to toe in rusty blood.  
>I dare say, we all are drenched in the icky stuff.<br>Anthea who's followed by a ratty looking, crowbar armed Greg – did he ever appear other than this since he's bitten? – and looking down on the device in her bloody hands states in a cool voice: "Area cleared within a radius of two miles. Better we get what we need and take a leave."  
>The elder Holmes and me nods, sharing a quick look, silently debating who gets the car and who goes after the chemicals we need.<br>Sherlock takes the decision out of our charge as he turns, shouldering the hammer, John on his heels: "We get the stuff, go get the Rover!"

I drive, fast and careless, all what can be heard in the car is the engine and the wet, lapping sounds of John cleaning up Sherlock.  
>It was a long day after all, and he is probably starving.<br>And I still sorts of struggles with my little "minds-black-out"...  
>Just as I'm thinking of what exactly leaded to my "short-time-memory-loss" Mycroft, for once sitting in the front and not in the back with Lestrade, asks in hushed voice: "Black out you did?"<br>I just serve him a nod and he mirrors the motion, whispering: "You saved you well, Iris."  
>This will stay between us, never spoken of it again and he finally crawls in the back, switching places with Anthea.<br>Only instants later there more slurping, licking sounds. Seems Gregory 's hungry too.


	2. Chapter 2

**Roses smalltalk:**  
>I should inform you, dear reader, that I'm now up to six chapters...<br>Have fun! ^_^

**II**

We're back in the chosen HQ again and as always the _humans_ get to shower first.  
>I don't really know, why we have this "shower-schedule". Anthea – she's insisting on keeping this name – showers first, as she's the most normal, in other words: humanly being, around us six and we all decided so, then me – as the boys wouldn't shut up if I wouldn't – then Sherlock, followed by Mycroft and at least the <em>others<em>, John and Greg.  
>Those times, while they shower, or wait on their turn to shower, Anthea tries to find a decent thing to wear and I, for once, don't has to act as a guinea pig on freelance basic down in the lab, I take my time to focus on the day and scribbling away on this journal.<br>The way Mycroft saved my ass today reminded me palpable of our first meeting...

... The apocalypse had started sometime over two years ago, when the first brake out hit like a storm.  
>Somehow someone messed up a biological weapon. A virus escaped. Really, no one of the world population thought of awakening in a bad scripted zombie movie.<br>Weirdest thing of all: it didn't start at ONE place and there where two (meanwhile we got three) sort of _undeads_.  
>We, the <em>humans<em>, found out over the time – in my case six months, as I still tend to listen to everyone – that there were on one side, the most zombie likes, brainwashed – brainkilled – by the virus which escaped, the ones which killed and slayed the humans they found to sate the craving for human flesh. The ones we started to call the "firms" because some of us humans where reminded of Resident Evil.  
>And then there were <em>other<em> undeads: The ones who still had a mind, a soul and personality. Those, who just were dead. Not to mention, that they too had a craving for living, or at least still warm, flesh. But, they where able to cope with other stuff than humans, they even could digest parts of the _firms_.  
>I'm actually grinning while scribbling, as I <em>never<em> will forget Johns shocked face as I once jokingly suggested he could eat a kitten... Poor guy. As If I would let this happen and as if _he_ ever would...  
>There still some tasty, glowing bunnies in the lab...<br>Back to the actual entry... Let's title that little thingy:

**How I met Mycroft Holmes** scratch that! Better, much better: **How the government saved my ass.**

It was about six months when Mary – my best friend – her dogs, some of our undead buddies and I decided to borrow a boat and cross the channel and pay a visit to Britain. Calais to Dover, like in the good old times.  
>We did just fine, as usual.<br>Killing some firms along our way, not thinking of the humans they once where, and then, yes, then...  
>... then I run out of paper and ink and I decided to take the Defender and do a little London sightseeing of my own while Marry and the others where hunting for food.<br>So it came that I was parking the car in front of a stationery shop in the middle of London.  
>Definitely not the best idea I ever had.<br>Turned out to be quite complicated to go back in the Defender after leaving the store...  
>And just as I was done, almost run over by firms, hockey stick – my usual weapon of choice – dripping with goo, blood and other gross stuff, shaking in my hands, the hero appeared.<br>He didn't storm in on a white stallion or even a bike. Nope. He just walked deadly calm right into the remaining small bulk of firms, umbrella smashing heads right and left, tie around his head.  
>We cleaned up in compatible silent, only stopping when the last firm ceased to move, staring blandly at each other.<br>I took in his features and I have to admit, that on the first look I thought he was an _undead_, then he dragged a rather long breath and stated: "I hate legwork."  
>I choose this moment to make a dull joke: "Shaun of the dead much?"<br>The man in front of me moved his stoic features in a crooked smile, stretched out his hand and stated, matter of fact: "Mycroft Holmes, British government, deadliest man alive."  
>My hand found his and I quipped: "Iris, continental survivor, nothing special."<br>We broke down in laughter right then and there.

Twenty-eight minutes later, Mycrofts PA Anthea, Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes and an ratter undead ex army doc in my car, I sent Mary a call: "Found some new friends, come to Dartmoor, look out for Baskerville."  
>Only an instant later Sherlock deduced, that I was a resistant, like he and his brother.<br>Not hard to deduce with the nice bite mark on my right underarm and me not yet zombified...

And here, we are now, about three months and one drama later...  
>Next time, I think I will scribble down the "feed my firm drama" from a month ago...<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

**III**

Dragging the drip stand after me I enter the "living room" flopping down on the sofa and while the solution trickles down in my body I wish nothing more than a...  
>"Beer?"<br>"Oh God, yes!" my voice is a delighted moan as Greg dangles the cold bottle in front of me, not caring for the deadly glares John gives us. The first time as Gregory gave me a beer after Sherlock and Mycroft drained me empty for the experiments, the Doctor tried to talking me off.  
>Needless to say, it didn't work.<br>"How much..." John stares at me with bloodshot eyes, scans me with his doctor-stare, "never mind, I can see it was to much. Again."  
>My smile is faint, a little edgy: "They only took what I was willing to give..."<br>This time even Anthea gives an annoyed snort from her seat at the kitchen table, staring as always on the device in her hand, while sipping her tea.  
>"Bah, guys, you know I'm hardly useful beside this..." getting up, gripping the drip stand with the hand not occupied by the beer, I retire to the garage before anyone in the room can open his mouth to protest.<p>

I measure my Rover Defender with a critical look, this thing _needs_ a music player... I can't stand it any longer to hear our both cuddle-zombies licking their mates clean while playing the governments driver.  
>And it will not only be for my good... Anthea get's paler after every trip we make.<br>My eyes roam the garage only to screech to halt on the Bentley right on the left to my Rover...

... I'm almost done pulling out the stereo from Mycrofts car, when the door opens again and Gregory scuffs in, sporting a six pack: "Oi, watch your infusion! What you're doing anyway, Iris?"  
>I grin: "Upgrade our squad car. Give me beer?"<br>"Myc will not be pleased..." he slurs and reaches me a beer, after using his teeth to decap the bottle, "but if you need a hand?"  
>"Yep... to both. Can you take out the dashboard in the Def?"<br>He can.

Ten minutes later his voice from outside the defender slurs in my direction: "You're definitely _not_ useless," he brakes off for a moment, "I know it was you who helped Myc to feed me..." his voice dies down to the end of his statement.  
>I lean back in the seat from which I'm working on the stereo and gulp down half of the beer before sputtering out: "You're ma friend Gregory Lestrade and the solution was in reach, so..."<br>"You..."  
>"Oh fucking bull shit, stop with the nonsense! You're on the best way to spoil the romantic air in this room. I didn't and doesn't care what you are. You even saved Mycs life while in firm-mode..." the rest of the beer finds his way into my throat, "And now, please tell me what you're smearing on my car there. I can smell the paint."<br>He chuckles hollowly and explains: "Just thought we need a sign, like in those trashy movies..."


	4. Chapter 4

**IV**

Indeed, we needed a sign... So finally, now that my defender sports a bloody, purple brolly on either side and a mad Cheshire cat grin on the hood and the others are in their beds I found some peace to go back to scribble in this journal.  
>Entry today, as Greg brought it up, the <strong>"feed my firm drama"<strong>

Two months ago the world of Mycroft Holmes screeched to a rather abrupt halt...  
>I never saw this man at loss, broken or panicking.<br>Not that I would known him this long, but it's just not in his personality. Not even when the progress on the healing solution makes regress, or when Sherlock gets ghastly bitten.  
>It's not, that we could get infected, the three of us, and sometimes it makes us careless, reckless even and it makes us forget, that we are, indeed, not immortal.<br>We had required new supplies for the lab, in other words, our little squad was in the middle of London boarding some hospitals and laboratories when it happened.  
>First there where only a few stray firms, nothing all to big to worry about.<br>No big trouble for us drivers, this time namely Mycroft, driving the armoured car we use for the supplies – you know, he hates legwork – and me, driving my Defender as usual.  
>And then hell broke loose...<p>

... They're to many, much to many for two people and I would and will swear to hell-doesn't-know-what, that there couldn't still be that many of those little buggers in London city.  
>Myc and I, we don't fight for the first time as a team, but this is ugly, really, really ugly.<br>And then it happens: with no warning one of those crawlers – God forbid, that I will think of them as former humans while fighting – jumps, bloody fucking _jumps_, from the money transporters roof and attacks Mycroft, sending him tumbling down, in a group of those _zombies_.  
>I would help him if there where not about twenty firms between us, and if John hadn't taken the flamethrower and my emergency gun wouldn't be on the backseat. But, as it is all I can do is trying to survive and hoping for a miracle.<br>The miracle suddenly appears in form of a very upset, crowbar wielding Gregory Lestrade – still human back then – who somehow made his way to Mycroft, pulling him out and in the back of the Money transporter, just as I finally reach the SG Sniper on the Defenders backseat.

My shoulder hurting from the weapons recoil, two fingernails broken, whacked and scrambling over the mess I made, I enter the hideout of the two mans only to stare alarmed at them.  
>Mycroft is clinging, knuckles white, to Gregory's blood drenched arm, whispering over and over again, shear panic in his voice : "Tell me it's not true..."<br>Lestrade just sits there and strokes with calm finality Mycrofts back, whispering something in the governments ear, sending me a serious look over the mans shoulder, which tells me all I need to know.  
>My mind starts to spin and race – adrenalin is a fine thing – and then everything stops right then and there as realisation hits me.<br>"Mycroft," toneless, sternly I command, "calm down."  
>I need him to listen. To understand.<br>Greg pats the elder Holmes' shoulder, finally lifts his chin up, demanding: "Listen. Do it for me, cupcake. Please."  
>I faintly smile at the pet name and, when Myc finally looks at me and nods, explain: "We don't need to kill... " both mans winces, "him. The serum works already on the rats and the bunnies..." this is the point when Mycroft Holmes' brain starts to work again, I can plainly see it, "... it must be tested on a firm soon..." I see the realisation settle, "and if Greg volunteers..." I don't need to finish, they both understood perfectly what I suggest.<p>

We drive back to Baskerville in deadly silence. The Defender for once in Johns undead, but capable hands and me behind the wheel of the money transporter, a still shocked Mycroft in the passenger seat and a raging firm in the cargo bay.

And yes, we had to feed him. Twice. Before the Holmes brothers and Watson found the right serum.  
>Now there three sort of "zombies": the firms, the undeads and the turns, as Greg put it when he finally found his mind again one month ago. <p>


	5. Chapter 5

**V**

Yesterday one of the few soldiers still stationed at Baskerville died and we found out some rather useful info's.  
>The guy tried to kill a firm on a outer mission – and please, I've no clue why they choose me for driver – but got a stray shot in the head, got bitten right afterward and – woke up as an undead <em>not<em> a firm.  
>This was rather interesting. And very useful.<br>So we now know that if you die immediately before you get bitten, sometimes instead of being dead dead, you change into a undead, not a firm. And, when you're not injured in anyway and very much alive when you get bitten, you'll end as a firm.  
>I delivered the news to Sherlock, who was for once alone in the lab and then went to take a shower.<br>Actually I wanted to take a shower...  
>Running water and a slurred moan – "cupcake" – let my hand drop of the handle and I turned away to Anthea's and my shared room. Now, one day later I'm back to scribbling in my journal, today I think it's time for the <strong>"catering service"<strong>...

... "Iris!"  
>I turn my head in Mycrofts direction, not stopping with what I'm doing: "Yes, Myc?"<br>"Do not touch my brolly."  
>"Do not drive my Def."<br>He quirks an eyebrow and steps closer to the sofa, where I'm sitting, cleaning and fixing his umbrella, gracefully taking place opposite me: "What are you doing with it anyway?"  
>"There's a rip," I smile, " ' just fix it up, so you will not get drenched, Mycroft Holmes."<br>He nods appreciative: "I see. Zombie slaying is a dirty business..." and there is it again, that crooked, mad grin he usually only sports when his tie is around his head.  
>I can't help myself to giggle: "Not dirtier as politic, Mr. Government!" and we sink back in comfortable silence.<br>Sometimes later I pass him his precious special-umbrella: "You know, that thing is much more heavier than a brolly this size should be..." in fact, I realise just now, you usually can't decapitate firms with an umbrella.  
>He understands the unspoken question and explains, while closing his fingers around the handle: "Ultra-high carbon steel, hand crafted and custom made, perfectly balanced, designed as a weapon..." he smirks, "I needed something I could carry into a meeting with the worlds highest without suspicion."<br>"Wow, I must confess," my grin spreads wider, "I had no idea that you're such a shifty sod, Mr. Government!"  
>Mycroft leans back in his seat, brolly now on his knees and laughs a little wistful: "I had another one, build in rifle, put it to good use on some opportunities..." he stops, blinks and laughs. It's the same laugh he barks while killing firms. I shudder. I know exactly why I like him so much: He's indeed the most dangerous man alive.<br>Again we just sit there for quit a long time, both strolling down our own tracks of thoughts until he speaks up again: "Why Mary wants to stay out there with her army of dogs?"  
>Marry, my best friend came to Britain with me and about thirty dogs. Dogs which were better than a complete military squad if it came to back up street fights with firms, as they listened on all the orders Marry gives them. Not that I ever will fully understand, how she does it...<br>"Oh," I shrug, "really, I've no clue, but we should be rather thankful, as she brings the sustentation for our undeads."  
>I almost shudders at the thought of the little shed ad the border of the base, where the little – and some bigger – animals where kept...<br>Myc only nods this time.


	6. Chapter 6

**Roses smalltalk:**  
>Comments anyone?<br>Pretty please and a firm-head on top?

**VI**

Knowing that Doctor John Watson, ex military and undead and Sherlock Holmes, former consulting detective and universal genius are together is one thing, stumble in on them snogging each other on the kitchen counter, another.  
>I just stand there under the doorway staring at them, blinking as Sherlock shoves up Johns jumper, revealing more of this pale, slightly greyish flesh and a – I suck in a shocked breath – a gash dragging along Johns right side around to his front. Four deep, angry lines. Well, they're stitched together, but, when they where fresh, no doubt, they where deadly.<br>Both men jump at my sound and Sherlock takes half a step away from John, who hastily tries to straighten his jumper, still sitting on the counter as I mutter: "That's nasty.."  
>Sherlock is the first to find his wits again and snaps: "Since when you're homophobic?"<br>I just blink and then scratch my head, smiling stupidly: "Not you two smooching, Locky..." my smile falters, "Johns gashes!"  
>Sherlock usually doesn't like when I call him Locky, but right now, it seems to lighten the moods a bit and so he says nothing and just nods, laying a protective hand on the Docs side whispering: "Sorry..." more to his lover than to me.<br>"It's okay," I assure him, "I'm sorry too, didn't mean to interrupt you, boys!" I shuffle over to the fridge, "Just let me fetch some beer and I'm gone..."

"I just walked in on Sherlock and John..." throwing Greg – currently sitting on the Defs passenger seat, bobbing away to Judas Priest's Pain Killer – a beer, "... eating faces on the kitchen counter."  
>He stops bouncing around for just a moment, then slurs: "I hope, you don't mean this literally, Iris!"<br>I giggle: "Nah, that would be _really_ messy. Can I ask you something very personal? Though," I add, "ye' doesn't have to answer, Greg."  
>"Go ahead!"<br>"First," nudging my beer bottle against his, crawling into the drivers seat, "how can you digest beer?"  
>He takes a sip from his London Pride and explains: "I'm pretty sure, you don't want to know the outcome of this question..."<br>"Okay, then second: Having a relationship, having sex as an undead, how it works, how it feels and can you get it up as an undead?"  
>"WOW! I think I'm bloody damn happy I can't blush anymore... Aren't you a little bit inquisitive?"<br>I do the job for him and blush vigorously, while I stammer: " I said, you must not answer, Gregory..."  
>"Stop talking like Mycroft and I'll answer..." he lurches forward to the dashboard, "... wasn't there somewhere a bottle scotch?"<br>"Box, under the seat."  
>He fumbles the bottle out, takes some deep gulps and passes me the beverage, I swallow and a glorious amount scotch burns down my throat while Greg starts to talk.<br>"You know," he rumbles, watching me drink, sipping his own beer, "you're not half as squirmy as Myc was, you know?"  
>"Why," I ask, "and you're aware, that you just said 'you know' twice, Greg?"<br>He slowly shakes his head: "After you turned me to what I'm now," I pass him the scotch back, " he couldn't touch me..." utterly sad he rushes half of the remaining scotch down before continuing, "... of course, he gave me that hug you all saw. It's not his thing to show affection in public... And that was what kept me going..." I nudge his shoulder comfortingly, "And one night – after the mission you got so awfully hit on the head," yep, I can remember quite fine, that's where my black outs come from, "suddenly he..." and the rest of my scotch disappears down his throat, "... he quite literally _jumped_ me. And everything worked perfectly fine."  
>"You're a lucky man, Gregory Lestrade!" and I drown the rest of my London Pride.<p> 


	7. Chapter 7

**VII**

"I'm so bored, bored. I'm so bored, bored. It's all so boring, boring," I move my hips to the beat from 'let's move it', "It's all so fucking..." I twirl before exclaiming, with a final push of my hips: "Boring!"  
>It's then when I notice the giggling behind me and flip around, only to see Anthea, for once not focused on the device she holds in hands and John, shaking his head, mumbling: "At least, she doesn't shoot the walls..."<br>I just bow and stretch out my hand, gripping Antheas, singing away to the next song: "... wake me up, before you go go..." swirling her through the living room, sending the radar she holds to floor.  
>Two songs later, even John is dancing, much to Sherlocks embarrassment, as the younger Holmes get pulled into dance with us by the gentle, but inhuman strength of his undead boyfriend, when he enters the room.<br>It's some hip-jerking, body-bouncing, no-one-hearing-the-door-banging, later, a enormous darkbrown Alsatian starts to bark and bounce around us, while Mary joins us in dancing.  
>Then, suddenly the elevator who leads down to the laboratories slides open to spill out a somehow flushed looking Mycroft a rather dishevelled Greg in tow. Greg reacts faster than Myc and so they end up dancing too.<br>Help, I think, the this must be the _final_ doomsday: The Holmes brothers dancing away to crappy eighties and nineties songs, all cheered, doubtlessly having fun.

The movie on the screen fades into the end credits while the woman, currently misusing me as a pillow, snuggles closer, drooling on my left leg. I heave a sigh and try to wake Anthea without wakening Mary who sleeps on the other sofa, cuddling with her dog.  
>The spontaneous party ended some hours ago and Mary decided to stay at the base overnight, watching a movie together with Anthea and me.<br>It was like the world never stopped to be normal and being back in another life. But in another life, this living-room wouldn't be in a bunker and below ground level.  
>And I can't get Anthea to wake up. Shit. So, we'll do another entry in my journal.<br>Let's think of a title... how about: **"Ouch, I hit my head. Hard."**? ...

... "... never mind, brother mine!" Sherlocks voice is high-pitched and about to tip over from upset into angry.  
>"Oh," Mycroft shoots back, lifting his umbrella a tad bit, "I do <em>not<em> mind, little brother!"  
>This outburst of still ongoing sibling rivalry would be amusing, but right now, in the middle of the main street, in a small village, probably still full of firms... not really.<br>"I only _care_ for you Sherlock!"  
>The younger Holmes snorts, leaning heavy on his sledgehammer: "This isn't really an advantage, brother!"<br>John and Greg share a weary look and I mumble in agreement: "I really would prefer, that they where not armed..."  
>Both undeads shrugs and then John gives us a questioning look: "Think they mind if we split up and get the groceries?"<br>Greg shrugs again and starts, shouldering his crowbar, to move towards the Tesco store at the head of the street. John and me on his heels, leaving Anthea to keep an eye on the arguing brothers.

"... eww, powdered milk," I complain, throwing the tin in the shopping trolley anyway, wheeling it further into the deserted Tesco, picking up some condensed and evaporated milk too. You never know which one the others like best, or when you can plunder a store next time.  
>I'm walking down the isle with sanitary products, chucking several boxes in the trolley, making my way over to the racks with the sweets, grabbing a pack chocolate nuts, as a loud reaping, screeching sound let me look up.<br>DAMN!  
>Throwing myself onto floor and rolling under the trolley for at least a minimal cover is one instinctive move. But it's already to late, the last thing I feel and register for a rather long time, is the overhead window crashing down on me, on my head precisely.<p>

When I come to me again, my vision is blurry and somehow – red tinted?  
>Blinking I try to focus on something, someone – what happened anyway? I can't remember a thing. Bloody shit, and I try to lift my hand to my pounding head.<br>Next thing I pick up is a slurring, concerned voice: "Don't move," a cold, but gently hand holds mine down, "the Tesco tried to kill you for grabbing his nuts."  
><em>What the heck?<br>_The voice continues: "It's only blood in your eyes. What's the last you remember?"  
>I try to concentrate, while blinking away the red, to remember, but all I can find in my head is emptiness.<br>Some of my distress must be reflecting in my eyes as the man who crouchs at my side commands: "Name, age, grade?"  
>I'm pretty sure, I'm not military, but the answers drops from nowhere into my mouth: "Iris, 32, tinker and guinea pig..."<br>And with this everything else drops right in his place in my mind.  
>My first black out, but not the last. And always I will need a kind of trigger.<br>Crazy enough, most of the time it's either John or Mycroft who brings me back.  
>With a sharp command. <p>


	8. Chapter 8

**VIII**

Something is wrong with the generators. Must be wrong. As the AC seems to run way to low, like it's not getting enough electricity. Someone will have to check upon this. And as the clock shows me an hour long after midnight and I'm currently the only one up and the tinkerer on duty...  
>"Iris..."<br>My hand fly's up, clutching at my chest, panting I growl: "Gosh John, want to murder me?"  
>"Nah," he slurs padding closer, "but it's so bloody hot in here, even I can feel it. And, I'm currently undead."<br>With a nod I agree: "I'll have to check the generators," picking up my toolbox and slinging the rifle over my shoulder, "you'd come along?"  
>He nods, grips his gun from the wardrobe and shoulders Sherlock's sledgehammer: "I'm in. Let's go!"<p>

The generators on which Baskerville is actually running are on the outside, right by the border to the minefield – what's rest of the minefield – so we take the elevator to the surface, only to walk straight into Greg, leaning with his back on the wall, smoking a spliff.  
>"Gregory Lestrade," I grin at him, "you're a damn copper, you're <em>not<em> supposed to smoke weed. Letting beside, that you're undead and it doesn't affect you anyway..."  
>He waves it off, flipping the stub into the dark: "I like the taste..." picking up his crowbar, "Where we going to?"<br>John gives a gargling snort and states: "The energy is to low, our Mac Gyver here," he points at me, "thinks it's the generators. Can't risk the experiments going to hell!" and together we leave for the generators.

There should be soldiers, guards, anybody!  
>But there's none.<br>"That's quite a bit not good..." the doctor, mumbles and I nod while Greg shushes back: "Some thing's 'r off..."  
>Silently, careful I place my toolbox on the ground, take the SG Sniper from my shoulder, preparing to shoot, nodding to the boys, letting the undeads lead.<br>The cot's door is dangling from the hinges, tore to shreds and some very distinguishable sounds reaches our ears from the inside.  
>"Firms..." I breath barely about a whisper.<br>And that moment Greg and John choose to bust into the shed.  
>And I realise, that I can't use the rifle without shooting my friends, undead or not, a bullet in the right – in this case the wrong – place still can kill them.<br>Bugger!  
>I grip the gun harder, and with both hands – still can use it to slam some heads if necessary.<br>It's not necessary, as the first thing sorting the shed is a head. A head followed quickly by a body pulled out by a blood dripping John, still latched to the rest of the firms neck, growling and chewing.  
>"Oh, I see," I quip, fighting down the short impulse to throw up, "you found you some midnight-snack, Doctor."<br>A pair of bloodshot, yellow eyes focus for a second on me, accompanied by an affirmative grunt.  
>Next thing happens is Greg, sorting the cot too, dragging a still moving firm behind and looking over to me he states: "Shed clear, you can go to work," he shoots the firm in his iron-grip a meaningful glance, "I'll go for a snack..."<br>Grinning and head-shaking, I pick up my tool box and go to work. One hour later I'm done and my undead friends with her snack too, so we go back "home".  
>Still rests the question, how the firms got in – and where the rests of guards where.<br>But, I think, we'll find out in the morning. 


	9. Chapter 9

**IX**

We're down three soldiers more since last night – and I'm pretty sure at least one of them ended up as a midnight-snack either for John or Greg.  
>Unfortunately we still don't know where the firms entered Baskerville, but much more fortunately, the area is cleared now.<br>Greg, John, Sherlock, five soldiers and I, we did the job this time.  
>The job resulted in four dead firms more and now we put Sherlock's sledgehammer to his originally destined use and fix the borders.<br>"That's more than a little weird..."  
>I look over to Gregory Lestrade, currently crouching in the dirt, checking some footprints: "What's weird, Greg?"<br>He turns his head, a tad to much than anatomically should be possible and with an audible scrunch, gives me a look another probably would recognise as his 'this-is-an-investigation-look' and demands: "Can you get Sherlock over here, Iris, please?"  
>"Of course!" I take off to the other side of the base, where John and Sherlock are working.<br>When Sherlock, John and I finally come back over to Greg, it takes only a moment and the ex-consulting detective and the ex-DI are swivelling around like maniacs and John comments with an amused gargle: "Welcome to the crime scene... don't expect any answers before they're done..."  
>They're surprisingly fast done and to surprise the Doctor and me even more Sherlock demands: "Go fetch my brother Iris. Hurry!"<br>I just turn and take off, dragging Mycroft practically out off the lab and back to the others, Anthea on our heels – as always her device in hands.  
>"Take a look," Sherlock starts and points at something on the soil, "brother dear."<br>Mycroft does like told and sniffles in recognition and states cold voiced: "Firms usually do not drive delivery wagons."  
>"That's exactly what I thought too..." Greg confirms.<br>Sherlock nods and continues: "They also do not usually use wire cutters. My friends, this is war."  
>I nod and ask: "I could ask Mary to come and let her dogs stay guard?"<br>Mycroft claps his hands and nods: "Good idea, Iris. Sherlock," he looks at his Brother, "I'm pretty sure, you can find out the type of this car and all the other necessary things?"  
>The ex-consulting detective grins and gives back: "You didn't dare to ask, did you brother mine?"<br>Then Sherlock turns to John and commands: "Come on John, the game is afoot..." he smiles happily, leans in towards the undead doctor and _purrs_: "Could be dangerous..." they both make a head start towards the head quarter, tailed by Lestrade while Mycroft looks expectantly at me.  
>With a deep sigh I shoulder the sledgehammer: "Send me over some of the boys and lent me Anthea, would you?"<br>The Government nods, smiles and makes a turn towards the HQ too, while Anthea asks me: "Can I help you, Iris?"  
>I offer her a kind smile, a wink and a giggle: "Yes my beauty... massaging my shoulders and bring me a beer when I'm done here... not to mention, that you better keep an eye on that thingy in your hands. 'M don't like any more surprises today..." and I smash the hammer on the fence post.<br>Anthea looks shortly up from the radar and smiles cheekily: "Trying to flirt much?"  
>"Why," I innocently give back with another wink, "does it work?"<br>To my big amusement she smiles: "Apparently yes..." 


End file.
